The life of a Thought
by LunaLillium
Summary: Cattibrie and Drizzt again, this time on acid. What happens to a character of imagination who falls through a rift of reality?


- The life of a thought...  
  
Author : Marie  
  
Main Characters : Drizzt, Cattibrie  
  
Genre: Angst  
  
One sentence summary : Salvatore meets with Neil Gaimans Neverwhere. How would Cattibrie and Drizzt fare in our - the readers - actually pretty grey and vacant world?  
  
The recognizable characters appearing in this story are Â© R.A. Salvatore and TSR: Forgotten Realms, all rights reserved. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made by the author for writing this story. No infringement upon nor challenge to the rights of the copyright holders is intended; nor should any be inferred.  
  
Authors comment : The Bauhaus - song "Bela Lugosi is dead" somehow gave birth to this depressing and yet beautiful picture in my mind. I decided to act upon it. I can recommend reading the story hearing the mentioned song - as I wrote it hearing it, as well. The nature of the plane called the Wastelands from the AD&D Planescape RPG also inspired me.  
  
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The boy rolled around on his back in the dirt of the alley, and somehow found the strength to sit up.  
  
It was night again, and cold. He shivered, and dragged his torn leathercoat closer around him. the noise of the club was again streaming through the open backdoor, leading into the smokefilled room. Loud and thumping, the bass of another Bauhaus-song mixed with Peter Murphy's painful, but calm voice....  
  
- White on white translucent black capes - back on the rack...  
  
He did not know why he was here, had no memory of for how long he had been here.  
  
They had fallen through the portal, and it had closed behind them, leaving them in this world of stone, this somehow grey and vacant plane of existence. There was no magic here, or even if there was, almost no one knew of it, or knew how to use it. Damned Harpells...  
  
But it was so long ago. So long, and he couldn't quite remember....remember...  
  
The noise from the club as another punk-girl was stumbling out of the door, increased for a second...  
  
- Bela Lugosi is dead - the bats have left the belltower...  
  
He shook his head again, then started over for her, to see if she had got the shit.  
  
Then he stopped again. Magic?  
  
He scoffed at himself. What kind of a stupid dream was that? This was the really REAL world.  
  
Thoughtfully, he started to chew one of his long white dreads. Somehow it made him clear up a bit. He had to stop having those dreams.  
  
Again he crawled to her, shaking her, as he tried to wake her up. She was obviously totally stoned.  
  
"Katie, by the Nine Hells, wake up!"  
  
Then, suddenly, she opened her eyes. Blue eyes, glassy and fishlike from the last strip of coke, which she had - undoubtedly - seduced from one of the pushers... back inside...  
  
- The victims have been bled - red velvet lines the black box - Bela Lugosi is dead - undead undead undead -  
  
He looked at her, and a sudden impulse - undoubtedly from that dream he'd had - made him imagine her with her natural auburn hair flying free in the air, and ... a bow?!?  
  
He shook his head, and looked down at her again. Her hair was bleached, and thoroughly filled with all kinds of stiffening products, her eyes were painted in black. Her grey woolen sweater was ragged and painted over with graffiti and stains of everything from blood to semen. and her netstockings were torn.  
  
But still she was...beautiful...  
  
- The virginal brides file past his tomb - strewn with time's dead flowers...  
  
The girl sat up, shook the grogginess from her head and reached in her pocket for the night's boot. They both reached their hands towards the fire form the lighter, as she started to heat up the marijuana. By sudden impulse, she brought forth a little plastic bag and showed him the white powder contained in it.  
  
He let out a cry of victory and kissed her on the cheek, then grabbed the bag and quickly stuffed it into the one remaining backpocket on his too big leatherpants.  
  
Then he looked back at her, concentrating with greedy movements on rolling the joint.  
  
- Bereft in deadly bloom...  
  
He knew he should remember, but he could not. None of them could, except from the fact that they knew that they knew each other. That they both for some reason used the phrase "The Nine Hells", when they cursed, and that they were friends. He did love her, though he could not figure out if he had ever shagged her, back then, in that world, where he had been this really cool guy with some kind of curved swords and a big black cat - now there was a hallucination! Must be the night he took LSD and got beaten up a week ago.  
  
He had run away from home, he reminded himself. At least, that was what he thought, because that was what everyone else like them had done. It sounded like a reasonable explanation.  
  
But he could not remember, and it pained him, enraged him. There was something amiss.  
  
He looked down at Katie. She was getting thin, anorectic, her body worn down from the booze and the many nights in this alley, in the cardboard box they had made their common home. It was cold, and money was spent on funnier things than food.  
  
He digged up a flat and smashed packet of tobacco, then rolled one and took a deep inhalation.  
  
But it was more than that. Over the last couple of weeks they had both felt thin, transparent. Felt their bodies fading away, like if this world could not supply the life force to their souls and bodies.  
  
- Alone in a darkened room...  
  
"Chris..."  
  
Her voice echoed behind him. Turning around he saw her holding out the lit joint towards him.  
  
Instantly, he squatted down, grabbed it and took the smoke into his lungs, greedily.  
  
He felt miserable, a feeling that he saw reflected in her eyes, lost, alone.  
  
"I had another dream", he said to her, his voice already slurred from the influences of the drug.  
  
She looked at him, worried. The ribs could be counted now, through the black skin of his stomach, but it was not only the undernutrition that had sent them both into this horrible state.  
  
The memories was seeping from them with the very force of life. Memories of something none of them could place. Another life, another time, though it may only be the drugs and the dreams of getting away.  
  
By sudden impulse she loosened a safety-pin from her sweater and handed it to him.  
  
"We are going to die here, you know?" He said, looking at her sadly, and somehow with a love inside him that a teenage punk should not be old enough to feel. He could not put his finger on it. Of couse they had shagged, as did all the other punks their age, but it was a young and desperate way of loving, a love founded in the presence of the moment.  
  
This was somehow...deeper. Yes, something was indeed amiss.  
  
- Bela Lugosi is dead...  
  
He grabbed the safety-pin and sat down on the asphalt beside her, handing her the joint. Then, after warming the needle in the flame of the lighter, the boy took a deep breath and pressed the needle into his left eyebrow. The pain was stinging, and blood blinded his vision, but he kept on pressing. Enraged, trying to force his memory to return with the sharpness of the pain. He must remember. He must!  
  
She looked at him, now indeed worried. But then the needle poked through the skin, and a little sharp cry left his lips. Gently, she reached out and closed the pin, adding another decoration to the pins imbedded up and down his pointy ears, and the ring in his bottom lip. Then she smiled, and digged forth a little piece of an old mirror from her purse.  
  
"Looks terrific!" she said, showing him his own reflection in it.  
  
He cocked his head a bit and stared long at it, musing. The sight of his own face brought back weird and fuzzied pictures into his mind.  
  
- Undead undead undead...  
  
He shook his head again. Must be the marijuana. Then he looked up to her, and saw a sparkle of memory in her eyes as well. She reached out her open arms then, embracing him, and holding on as if she would never let go.  
  
Then he remembered!  
  
With a last look on her, he mouthed her name silently. He could feel his body becoming more and more transparent now, he felt as smoke in the wind, and knew that they would be scattered within moments now. Perhaps, so he hoped, flying back to the Forgotten Realm they knew they belonged to: The fantasies of humans. Hopefully they had not been forgotten by those who shared their adventures, yes, indeed, memory of those very humans were the source of their life.  
  
But right now it didn't matter anymore.  
  
He mouthed her name again, and closed his eyes. Then he let it all go.  
  
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Matthew Harris, the barkeep came in from the street, confused. He had hoped finding the two homeless young punks out there. He usually scraped together some of the leftovers from the cafÃ© where he worked across the street. He had liked them, those two, small and ragged creatures, but with a distinct aura about them, something that oddly enough made him think of when he was a boy and played in his own worlds of fantasy, dragons and spaceships.  
  
Especially the piercing look of the boys lavender eyes - he had never seen eyes of that color before - did something to this man.  
  
But today though, he had not found them in their usual alley. Probably, they had left for another part of town, perhaps the underground.  
  
But what he could not get to fit in was that he had found all their clothes in the middle of the alley. Hopefully, they were not walking around naked?  
  
And then the wind. It had blown through the alley that morning, with a softness and peacefulness, and somehow - though Matthew did not know why that word popped into his mind - a sadness that he could not comprehend.  
  
And in it, he had almost - almost - heard something, a name maybe, though he had never heard of such a name before.  
  
- Cattibrie, sweet Cattibrie... 


End file.
